Talks Too Much in Class…

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art, artist, glass, grade school, habits, talking, writing

As a kid, I was a talker. I can blame genetics – aunts and cousins who chatter, and a great-grandpa whose almost-epic, pre-dinner prayers threatened to leave us with cold food – but the evidence was there:

I was a yakker.

Back in the day, my grade-school teachers selected from several pre-approved comments when it came time to fill out report cards. “Is a good helper.” “Listens well and is attentive.” “Follows instructions.”

One of their choices for me?

“Talks too much in class.”

This was before the advent of offering a mushy, positive comment to offset the sting of the negative one, so I rode the bus home, filled with the knowledge that while my parents would certainly be happy about my grades, we’d have yet another conversation about my chattering in class.

A bit like my report card…

“Hon,” my mom would say patiently, one hand on my shoulder, “don’t you think you should start listening to the teacher?”

My dad was more blunt.

“A little more of this,” he’d say, pointing to his ears, “and a little less of this,” with a jab to his mouth.

Sigh. I had heard it before, and I’d hear it again, but one truth remained:

I was a gabber.

But like any trait, it can be useful. Fast forward thirty (well, maybe closer to 40) years, to yesterday, when I interviewed a talented glass artist for an article I’m writing. She mentioned that, back in the day, her teachers suggested she “stop doodling in class.” She comes from a family of creators – woodworkers, knitters, painters. A bunch of doodlers!

Now, her artistic tendencies have come full circle, helping her create absolutely beautiful pieces of stained and fused glass. Light spills through them, colors dance, moods appear.

Our interview wouldn’t have been half as enjoyable if I had been shy or closemouthed. My gabbing tendencies, while they exasperated my teachers (and my parents, I’m sure) have moderated and abated slightly, but I need to be talkative at times to learn more about life, people, art.

I didn’t need therapy for my early grade-school transgressions, and even today, I sometimes fight the urge to keep my thoughts to myself. I do, but sooner or later, things tend to spill out. Just the way things are, I guess.

Tell me about your early labels. How did they shape you? How have they served you?

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We All Need a Little Boost…

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encouragement, freelance writing, help, Peter Mallett, running, support, writing

Not me, but this is what running feels like sometimes…

I enjoy exercising…most of the time. My schedule alternates between running, biking and walking, but honestly, when running days come along, I feel the eensiest bit whiny. It’s too hot…my shoes are too tight…it’s too cloudy…anything, really. Strangely, the best part is the feeling of accomplishment I get when I’m finished, all hot and sweaty, glad that I reached another goal.

Sunday’s whiny little voice was no different, but I laced up and headed out anyhow. The last leg of my run takes me past Joe and Rosemary’s house, set behind some trees.

They’re elderly – I’m guessing in their 80s – and obviously past any exercising days they may have had, because they drive their car down to the box to get the morning paper.

That’s what Joe was doing as I huffed and puffed past their driveway, running along, wishing our driveway was next. (Sensing some whining here?) I waved at Joe, but his attention was directed toward maneuvering the car so he could reach the press box. I ran a few steps, turned around, and waved once more. Joe responded with a big smile and a wave.

Ocean/Corbis

It was a simple thing, but it sealed the deal on my last half-mile. Buoyed by that little gesture of happiness, I fairly bounded home.

The writing process can be that way sometimes. I feel like I’m slogging along, not making the progress I want to. Everything is uphill, writing into the wind, so to speak.

At those times, it’s nice to have a little encouragement. Recently, I left a part-time job (read more about that here) to return to writing. I’ve submitted to magazines in the past, and wanted help polishing the way I went about it. I reached out to Peter Mallett, whose blog “Writing in Color” offers supportive and encouraging posts, written in down-to-earth style.

He responded with a terrific Q&A series, based around questions that I and other writers submitted. (Part 2 here).

It was just what I needed. Like Joe’s wave, it was a supportive boost that spurred me on.

Writing can be a solitary pursuit, but there are times when it’s important to reach out, with questions, advice, support, giving others that little push they need to finish the race. That feeling when I hit the “send” button on something I’ve written is a little like finishing my morning run – a lot of work, but the feeling of accomplishment is priceless.

When have you benefited from a helping hand? How have you used your talent to help others? That’s what it’s all about!

courtesy nps.gov

Laundry Therapy

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childhood, connection, family, laundry, outdoors, therapy, together, writing

There are some household chores I’d skip altogether if I could. Dusting…scrubbing the floors… I really don’t mind doing laundry, though.

Yes, laundry. There’s something about clean sheets snapping in the breeze, then sleeping on them that night, smelling the wind locked in their fibers. My friend Barbara and I call this “Laundry Therapy.” And to a certain degree, it is a form of therapy for me, I think, partly because it connects me to family members. Simplicity. Outdoors.

When I was a kid, I helped grandma with her laundry. She and grandpa had seven kids, which meant tons of laundry, but by the time I happened on the scene, only two kids remained at home.

Something like this, only grandma didn’t smile this much. Or wear heels…

Still, she lugged her basket down the basement steps and over to the wringer washer. It was a laborious process – clothes got laundered in one tub, then plopped, soaking wet, in the wringer washer. Grandma stuffed jeans through its rollers, wringing out the excess water. I wasn’t allowed to get my hands near the wringer – apparently, grandma tried that already, with painful results. We headed out to the clothesline and hung up grandpa’s striped railroad overalls, monster undies, sheets, jeans. My job was to hand clothespins to grandma, dug out from a tin coffee can.

After, we’d sometimes, walk over to the neighbor’s. Angeline set out cookies for me, (she pronounced it “cooo-kies” for reasons I never figured out) and she and grandma had a cup of coffee while the laundry dried.

It was much the same at home, minus the wringer washer. I’d help mom by handing clothespins up – jumbled in a plastic ice cream bucket – and watch as she methodically hung wash. She was more orderly than grandma, hanging things largest to smallest – first came dad’s jeans, then hers, then mine, on down the line.

I had tea with Barbara the other day, and one of the first things she asked was if I hung laundry out. “It’s a perfect Laundry Therapy day,” she said. We laughed, and admitted that sometimes on beautiful, sunny days, we’ll scour the house, looking for things that aren’t really, truly dirty, and wash them, simply for the joy of having something flapping on the line. It’s the small things that give each day a little sparkle. And it’s different for everyone – a dear friend is a gardener, and looks forward to spring, when she can get her hands dirty and start the process of helping things grow.

I think it’s something more, too. Rob Bell talks about the disconnect many of us feel in our lives, saying “it’s possible to go days without spending any significant time outside, and it’s still considered ‘living.'”

When was the last time you got outside and really, truly lived?

Today’s laundry day!